


Penance

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: BDSM, Blindfolds, Bondage, Caning, Collars, Dominance, Double Penetration, Enemas, Gags, Humiliation, M/M, Medical Procedures, Punishment, Sex Toys, Slash, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-16 17:26:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Colonel Moran has made a serious mistake; Moriarty must punish him for this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written largely as an experiment; I got a list of kinks from a 'kink bingo' page and then tried to incorporate as many of those as I could into one story.

   There is a strange atmosphere in the room, a chill, despite the warmth of the fire; a heaviness, somewhat akin to the feeling one senses in the air before a thunderstorm. Moriarty has not spoken; he has not moved; he has not thrown a tantrum and hurled things about, but Moran knows that this is not a good sign.

    “Come here,” Moriarty says at last, and Moran goes to him; stands before him.

    Cool blue-grey eyes fix on his face, seeming to sear him down to the core. “You have made a mistake, Colonel,” Moriarty informs him, his voice still controlled.

    “Yes sir,” Moran says, looking at his boots. It means something, doesn’t it? The way the professor has phrased the matter. Not _you have failed me_ , but _you have made a mistake_. Most men do not get to make more than one error with Moriarty, but Moran is not most men. Moran is far more valuable, far more intelligent, and exceedingly loyal. Even in his fury Moriarty knows that words mean things; that the subtle nuances of language may irrevocably change things forever. Tell Moran that he has failed; that he _is_ a failure even, as his father did time and time again, and Moran may come to believe this, and he may never be the same again, his confidence forever ruined. Tell him that he has made a mistake though, and this is different. The mistake cannot be rectified now, it is too late for that – Moriarty’s scheme has been ruined already – but Moran can be punished for it; he can do his penance for it, and he can learn from this, and he may well come out stronger at the end of the experience.

    “That is all you have to say on the matter, is it?” Moriarty queries, still with his voice so very calm and composed. Only his slightly tapping fingers give any real sign of his anger, though still that heavy blackness hangs in the air between the pair.

    “Yes sir.” Moran lifts his gaze to regard the professor momentarily. “I made a mistake; I cost you a great deal of money; it was an accident, but I take full responsibility for it, sir, and I have no excuses.”

    “Yes, well.” Moriarty sits back a little in his chair and glances away. He knew that Moran would not try to lay the blame elsewhere, as many men might do in order to try to save their own hide. Although he is disappointed by the colonel’s lapse of judgement, he is at least pleased that Moran understands his responsibilities. “Moran,” he says after a moment’s pause, more for effect than because he needs to ponder his words. “You are aware that I will not kill you, nor cause you any lasting harm.”

    “Yes sir; thank you sir.” Moran’s gaze falls back to his boots, although he otherwise stands up perfectly straight; perfectly still.

    “Yet you are also aware that I cannot simply allow this mistake to pass without acting in some way.”

    “I am aware, yes sir.”

    Moriarty fixes his eyes back on the colonel. “What do you think that I should do to you, Colonel?”

    Moran lifts his gaze once again. “I think that you should punish me, sir.”

    “And how might I go about that, Sebastian?”

    “I don’t know sir, perhaps you should…” Moran swallows and his fingers clench slightly. “Perhaps you should hurt me.”

    Moriarty regards him – the slight increase of his pulse; his apparently rather nervous swallowing; the dilation of his pupils, and… (Moriarty glances down) certain other physical indications. There is no question that Moran enjoys being dominated; being hurt, even, and that he is most certainly aroused by the thought of being punished, even if he may not consciously desire all the elements of such an experience.

    “Oh yes, Sebastian, I will hurt you,” he says, leaning forward in his chair once more, running his tongue briefly over his bottom lip. “I will make you scream and cry and beg.”

    Moran’s breath seems to hitch slightly in his throat.

    “But will you be begging for me to cease, or to continue, hmm?” Moriarty reaches with one hand and brushes the backs of his fingers across Moran’s cheek. “That is the real question.” He drops his hand abruptly and stands up. “The usual rules apply, do you understand?”

    “Yes sir.”

    “Very well. Come with me into my playroom then.” And Moriarty leads the way, the colonel following only a few paces behind, towards the door that leads down into the cellar.


	2. Chapter 2

   It is a cellar, but not merely a cellar. Moriarty’s playroom, fitted out to keep out the damp and draughts and furnished and decorated sumptuously, to provide for his comfort, and – if he so chooses – the comfort of his partner, namely Colonel Moran, when they require privacy for some of their more drawn out games. There is a large double bed, more than the equal of the one upstairs in their bedroom, and a comfortable sofa; a small drinks cabinet and a washstand; a wooden chair; also a table upon which may often rest a decanter of brandy, or an ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne, and there are thick maroon velvet drapes upon the walls. However, if he so chooses also, the room is also fitted out to cause immense  _discomfort_  to his partner too, and even the most innocuous of items may have a darker purpose.

    The bedstead is sturdy enough to stand up to the most vigorous of struggles from one who is chained to it. The velvet drapes aid in ensuring no sound can leave the room to disturb those above. The table is solid and fixed to the floor, and what may appear at first glance to be metal formed into loops and swirls merely for decoration may also prove to be strong metal rings to which ropes or chains can be secured, holding a partner in the perfect position, utterly helpless. Under the rug on the floor too is a stout metal ring, to which Moriarty can also chain Moran if the mood strikes him. Then there is the toy chest, a stout, locked wooden box off to the side, beautifully decorated with silver and semi-precious stones, but containing all manner of items capable of teasing and torturing a partner.

    Moran follows Moriarty into the room, his head slightly bowed, his hands clasped together behind his back. He suspects that this is going to be a very long night indeed; a very long and drawn out experience. He shivers slightly, although the cellar is warm enough.

    “Afraid?” Moriarty enquires, as Moran halts in the centre of the room. He locks the door behind them.

    “No sir.”

    “Perhaps then you should be.” Moriarty slides the bolt home before moving over to the drinks cabinet. He pours himself a whisky from a crystal decanter; takes two slow sips of it before turning to face Moran.

    The colonel looks back at him, his posture still that of a military man; upright and not cowed, but still wary, without his usual cockiness. He is alert, all of his senses apparently telling him to run; that danger is imminent, but he overrides them all so that he stands there still unmoving.

    “Here,” Moriarty says, holding the glass out before Moran’s face, close enough to indicate that Moran is not to take the glass himself. “Drink this.”

    Moran eyes him momentarily before obediently opening his mouth so that Moriarty can carefully put the glass to his lips. He would rather like to have more than the couple of swallows he is allowed but there is no more. Moriarty sets down the now empty glass before he seats himself on the sofa.

    “Strip, Moran,” he instructs.

    “Yes sir.” Moran does so methodically, carefully, but not overly slowly. He merely takes his time so as not to damage his clothes as he removes them, and so that he may neatly fold all of them up and carefully place them on the chair, his boots pushed together beneath it. He is aware that Moriarty dislikes it when he scatters his clothes about carelessly. When he is done he stands back in the centre of the room, feet together, hands behind his back, one hand clasped loosely around the other wrist.

    The professor eyes him dispassionately, regarding Moran’s muscular but lean body with an almost clinical gaze. Moran is his; he has no doubt of this. Whether one wishes to be romantic about matters (both would prefer not to be) or not, Moran is his; his to possess; his to do what he wishes with. Soon after he entered into the professor’s employment Moran gave the professor this gift: himself, to be used as Moriarty sees fit. To be punished when necessary. Moran  _is_  special to Moriarty, there is no question of that, but he is only a man. Beneath that scarred and freckled skin are bones that may break; veins and arteries that may bleed; muscles and tendons that may be damaged. More abstractly, there is a mind that may be forever altered; forever scarred by improper handling, just as easily as Moran’s body can be scarred. In short, Moriarty could break him completely, if he so chose, and he considers this fact frequently; does so right at this moment as he eyes Moran’s naked form. That Moriarty has never chosen to do so though speaks volumes about his regard for the colonel; about his private affections too. He does not intend to break Moran completely tonight either, but he will push him very far – oh yes so very far indeed.

    “Come here,” he commands, and Moran does so. “Down on all fours.” Moran drops onto hands and knees at once. “Stay,” Moriarty says, as he stands up and goes over to unlock his toy chest.

    Moran is deeply curious about what items the professor will take out first, but his curiosity does not override his obedience. He remains in position, looking straight ahead, even when Moriarty drops something onto the table just out of his line of sight.

    “Do you think that you are my equal, Sebastian?” Moriarty enquires.

    “No sir.”

    “No, good, you are not my equal; not at all. Do you know what you are?”

    “No sir.”

    “You are my  _pet_. Not even my whore, but merely my lapdog, who – much to my displeasure - strays from time to time, sniffing around the backsides of every  _bitch_  in the neighbourhood; who must be trained and disciplined.” Moriarty stands over him and slides the stout leather collar around Moran’s neck, drawing the strap end through the buckle until it rests tightly against his throat, not quite tight enough to restrict his breathing but enough to make him unable to forget its presence; unable to forget that he is owned.

    As Moriarty slips the loose end of the strap through its keeper he rests his hand close to Moran’s face, and Moran cannot help but press against it slightly, nudging against his inner wrist.

    Moriarty draws his hand back and abruptly slaps Moran across the cheek. It is moderated by the distance, by Moriarty’s own impeccable control, and by Moran’s beard also, but it still stings slightly. “Did I give you permission to nuzzle me, Sebastian?” he demands.

    Moran glares up at him while his cheek reddens. “No sir.”

    “No, that is correct, I did not. Apparently not only do you require punishing for your mistake, Sebastian, but it seems that you also require further training to remind you of your place.” Moriarty leans over and clips a leather lead to the ring on the back of Moran’s collar. Giving this a sharp tug, he hauls Moran over so that he may sit upon the sofa with Moran in front of him. “Sit, pet.”

    Moran sits on the floor.

    “Give me your paw, Sebastian.”

    Moran holds out his right hand.

    “No, the other paw, pet.”

    Moran hesitates fractionally. Though he requires both hands for his work, he is right-handed. Therefore if Moriarty was inclined to cause any damage to his hands, he would surely pick the left. Moran’s hands are large and strong, but hands are all so fragile really; such thin skin; such delicate bones. Moriarty could snap his fingers like twigs if he chose.

    Moriarty holds Moran’s hand in his, rubbing his thumb over a faint scar where Moran once gashed himself during a battle. Moran seems to hold his breath as the professor does so, then gasps sharply as Moriarty digs his thumbnail abruptly into Moran’s skin.

    “Do you think that I’m doing this for you, pet?” Moriarty enquires. “For your enjoyment?” He looks down between Moran’s thighs, at his prick, flushed with the beginnings of arousal.

    “No sir.”

    “This is about punishment and discipline; about ensuring you know your place and making sure you do not make a mistake again.”

    “I know that sir.”

    “I’m not sure that you do.” Sharply Moriarty drags Moran back onto his feet, tugging on Moran’s hand and the lead clipped to his collar simultaneously. “Up, up. Now, come here.” He leads Moran over to the table, backing him against it until Moran can go no further and his legs buckle. Moriarty presses him down, manhandling him onto his belly and securing the lead to a ring at the top of the table so that Moran’s neck is pulled down against the polished wood. “Remain there,” he commands as he goes to his toy chest to retrieve more items.

    The leather straps that go around Moran’s wrists come next, as Moriarty pulls Moran’s arms up above his head, binding his wrists to the table. Moran lies still all the while, saying nothing, but listening intently. He does not resist either when Moriarty pushes his legs wide apart and secures his ankles to the metal rings on the bottom corners of the table.

    “I could simply leave you here,” Moriarty says, observing Moran for a moment in that detached way once again. He runs two fingers down Moran’s back; down over his buttocks. “Restrained, helpless. You could scream and scream, pet, but nobody would hear you; nobody would come for you.”

    Moran rolls his head to look off to the side as much as he is able and swallows thickly now.

    “This thought terrifies you, doesn’t it, pet?”

    “Yes sir,” Moran admits quietly.

    “I  _could_  do that to you.”

    “Yes sir.”

    “I will not.” Moriarty runs a hand briefly, almost gently, down Moran’s face. “I’m not going to leave you alone, pet.”

    “Thank you sir.”

    “But I must punish you.”

    “Yes sir.”

    “I have plans for you.” Moriarty steps back, shrugging off his frock coat now. He lies this neatly down upon the sofa before he removes his pocketwatch from his waistcoat pocket and examines it briefly. “I am expecting a guest shortly,” he informs the colonel.

    Moran twists his head sideways to looks at Moriarty questioningly. “Sir?”

    Moriarty re-pockets his watch. “A guest, Moran; someone to assist me in punishing and disciplining you. Ah…” He watches Moran tug unwittingly against his restraints at these words. “You are not happy with this I see.”

    “Sir, I…” He doesn’t like this idea; the things they do in private are for them alone, not for the eyes of others.

    “You find the idea of another person being present humiliating?”

    “Yes sir.”

    “Good; then the punishment is proceeding well.”

    Moran opens his mouth to say something, then thinks better of it. He sees Moriarty arch an eyebrow at him in amusement, before a bell off to the side tinkles.

    “Ah, excellent.” Moriarty spins around. “Our guest is here.”


	3. Chapter 3

   Moran tries to twist round to see who enters but with the restraints securely fastened in place it is impossible. He simply has to lie there and listen as Moriarty invites the man in and they speak in hushed tones – words that Moran cannot make out. At last Moriarty strolls back to stand level with Moran’s head, resting his hand between the colonel’s shoulder blades.

   “Sebastian,” he says softly. “I want you to meet our guest.” He gestures off to the side, at the second figure.

   A tall man, stripped to his shirtsleeves now. He is well built and seems to be strong, well-muscled, but there is little else Moran can tell about him, for the man wears a blank white mask over his face, with only two holes for the eyes.

   “You shall not see his face, pet,” Moriarty tells his bound lover. “Nor shall I tell you his name.” He continues stroking Moran’s back lightly. “I will however tell you one thing: that he is a doctor.”

   Moran goes tense. “Professor!” he says. Moriarty knows all about Moran’s hatred of doctors; his intense mistrust of them.

   “Hush pet. Just lie still.” Moriarty runs his hand through Moran’s hair, soothing him, then gives a curt nod to the anonymous doctor. “You may proceed.”

   The doctor brings over a Gladstone bag and sets this down where Moran can just see it, on the sofa. He opens it up and retrieves something that initially Moran cannot identify, until he sees the doctor shake the object. The light catches on the thin glass, glinting briefly. It is a thermometer, and Moran has a very good idea of where precisely it is going to go.

   “Professor?” Moran says. A query more than a protest; he is aware that protesting is useless.

   “It occurs to me,” Moriarty says, rubbing soothing circles on Moran’s lower back now, “that perhaps there was some reason you made such an error today. Perhaps you are unwell, and this impaired your judgement. If that were the case then it would certainly affect your punishment.”

   Moran watches the doctor take out a jar and smear a small amount of its contents on the end of the thermometer before he moves around behind Moran, out of the colonel’s sight. The doctor’s touch is cold and impersonal and Moran cannot help but flinch when the man’s hands touch his buttocks, gently but firmly pressing them apart in order to slide the thermometer in. The instrument too is cool and Moran gasps slightly before pressing his face against the tabletop, feeling himself flush with shame.

   “Professor,” he groans. “Please.”

   “Hush, pigeon.” Moriarty is still rubbing Moran’s back with his knuckles now, reassuring him, but his expression is one of intense amusement at Moran’s discomfort.

   The doctor holds the thermometer in place while counting off three minutes on his pocketwatch, though occasionally he gives the thermometer a gentle twist. Each movement pulls another low moan out of Moran, who still lies with his face pressed against the table. His prick is even harder now and that too is pushed against the table, uncomfortably so, but apparently not so uncomfortably that it does anything to reduce his arousal.

   When the doctor withdraws the thermometer after what seems to Moran to be closer to three hours than three minutes, the colonel lets out a faint sigh of relief.

   “Well?” Moriarty queries, his hand still resting on Moran’s back.

   “Perfectly normal,” the doctor replies, and Moriarty gives an ‘hmm’ in response to this.

    “Well, pet,” he says after a moment’s thought. “You do understand what this means, yes?”

    “Yes sir.” He understands perfectly: he is to endure full punishment; further pain; further humiliation, knowing all the while that the worst thing is not what the professor chooses to inflict on him; not at all. The worst thing is that deep down Moran _craves_ this punishment; this penance; his own subjugation and humiliation, and even given the opportunity to end it he will not do so.

    Moriarty lightly slaps Moran’s bottom before he moves away from his side. Moran hears him rummaging in the chest once again; hears the chink of chains; the snap of leather as Moriarty sorts through his toys and decides what to use on Moran next. When he returns he slips a blindfold over Moran’s eyes, tying it securely behind his head. Moran goes tense at this and a cold shiver of fear runs down his spine. He’s been blindfolded around the professor so many times but there has never been another man with them before now. Still, the cold shiver turns to heat when it reaches his groin. The idea of being dominated by just anyone, by some total stranger, repulses him, but the idea of being dominated by a stranger at the professor’s order… it is as oddly intriguing as it is frightening.

    Nothing more happens for a time and Moran is left to lie there, listening to the sounds coming from behind him. Moriarty and the doctor are apparently preparing something but Moran cannot discern yet just what. There is more metallic chinking and then Moran hears the door open and footsteps depart the room. Panic courses through him at this, which he bites back. Logically he is sure that Moriarty wouldn’t leave him alone at the mercy of a stranger; he _wouldn’t_. Even so…

    “Professor?” he says, his voice quavering slightly.

    “Hush, pet.” Moriarty puts his hand to Moran’s cheek and Moran nuzzles gratefully against it. “I’m still here.” He pulls away after a moment, leaving Moran feeling strangely cold without him.


	4. Chapter 4

   When the doctor returns Moran hears the door being locked and bolted once more, then sounds of water splashing. He still doesn’t understand what is going to happen, which of course he is aware is an intrinsic part of the punishment. They could do anything they choose to him, no matter how depraved; how painful, while he is bound here. Moriarty is not going to do anything to permanently damage his right hand man but this still leaves many things they can do to him that are uncomfortable and unpleasant.

    He tries to lie quietly and regulate his breathing so as not to spiral into panic, whilst still trying to discern what is about to be done to him. There is noise closer to now, as Moriarty moves nearer to him again. Warm fingers briefly touch his left ankle, then are withdrawn. Moran hears the buckles that secure his ankles to the table being undone.

    “On your knees, pet,” Moriarty commands, and Moran shuffles into this new position, although when he tries to press his legs together Moriarty smacks him sharply across the buttocks. “Legs spread!”

    “Yes sir.” Because of the collar Moran’s neck and upper body are still held closely to the table. He ends up therefore kneeling there, thighs spread and with his arse in the air. Moriarty secures his ankles to the table once more, trapping him in this new position.

    Moran’s earlier erection had largely subsided, but now it begins to stir once more. Eyeing it, Moriarty says wryly, “Do you still assume this is about your pleasure, pet?”

    “No sir.”

    Moriarty slips a hand around beneath Moran, between his legs, giving his prick a hard squeeze. Moran bucks against the touch and groans.

    “Good,” Moriarty says fiercely, listening to Moran’s catch of breath as he strokes him roughly. “If you could see yourself, pet,” he says, and Moran can hear the malicious amusement in his master’s voice. “Afraid of what is about to be done to you, yet so aroused by this also; desperate for it, for any abuse; for any cruelty that the doctor and I may inflict upon you. You crave your punishment, don’t you pet?”

    “Yes sir, I-ah…” Moran gasps as Moriarty continues to work his arousal with strong, clever fingers. He is fully hard now, and fully aware that he will not be allowed release any time soon. He still cannot help himself from thrusting into the touch though, as much as he can with the restraints in place.

    “Yes?” Moriarty queries. “Do tell me, pet, what you want.”

    “I want you to punish me, sir. Oh, _god_.”

    “Again, pet. I want to hear you beg.”

    “Sir, punish me, please. Please punish me, please, I… _Please_.”

    Moriarty drops his hand abruptly and gives a curt nod at the doctor, who steps forward.

    Moran, his breath coming in pants, tries to twist in the restraints to follow the professor’s movements, and then he gasps sharply as a cool finger is pushed between his buttocks. Still painfully aroused, he cannot help but groan at the sensation as that finger, greased with something he supposes must be petroleum jelly, is pressed inside him; he cannot keep from pushing back slightly too, wanting to be fucked; to be filled.

    Beside him Moriarty chuckles darkly. “Look at you, my pet. My little _slut_ , trying to fuck himself on a single digit. Oh I assure you, my needy little whore, that you _are_ going to be stretched; you are going to be filled, so very completely, but not yet in the manner you assume.”

    Moran feels the doctor’s finger inside him twist and stroke, before it is withdrawn. He has little time to adjust to its loss however before something else is pushed between his buttocks, something hard and unyielding but warm. He realises then what the doctor is doing to him, when he feels the warm water being squirted into him.

    “Oh _god_ ,” he breathes. It is not entirely unpleasant at first; indeed as the warm liquid flows deeper inside him it acts upon that spot within him, the stimulation of which can easily reduce him to a helpless, mewling mess. The more he is stimulated though, and the more liquid is introduced into him, the more his discomfort increases. He cannot touch himself to relieve the pressure in his groin and now the internal pressure is rapidly becoming unbearable. He feels bloated; stretched, yes, but not in any manner that is pleasurable.  “Sir, I…”

    “Does it hurt?” Moriarty enquires, his tone lacking the slightest bit of concern.

    “Yes, sir. I… It hurts.” He feels that his whole belly must be swollen; distended. He is also convinced that is about to shit himself at any moment, and wouldn’t that be the epitome of humiliation? To be made to do so whilst strapped to the table, quite unable to do anything about it. It is only his recollection of the professor’s general distaste for mess and bodily secretions that makes him think that he will at least be spared that indignity. “Sir, I can’t… this is too much.” Surely he cannot take any more, he thinks, yet the fluid seems to keep on coming, leaving him with the triple discomfort of his aching erection, his swollen abdomen and now the cramps that run through his lower body. “Fuck,” he says. “Sir, _fuck_.”

    “Language!” Moriarty smacks his buttocks again, although he soon moves to rub Moran’s lower back. “Do you wish to know what you look like, pet?”

    Moran has no desire at all to hear this, but he says, “Yes sir.”

    “You look as if you are with child.” Moriarty laughs as he continues to rub Moran’s back. “As if your belly is swollen with the fruit of our joining; as if the intense cramps that I am sure you are feeling are your labour pains.”

    Moran grunts in displeasure at this notion.

    “Imagine if that were possible, pet.”

    “I’d rather not.”

    Moriarty chuckles again at this response, pleased that Moran is not completely cowed. “Yes, well, in point of fact even if that _were_ possible, I would not waste your talents by using you merely as my brood mare.” He trails his fingers along the ridges of Moran’s spine now and Moran arches slightly under his touch. “Even if you _do_ often seem to crave nothing more than to be mated.”

    Moran pants as another wave of cramps grip his body, although soon his panting is from another cause as Moriarty once more grips Moran’s erection in his hand and strokes him once, twice, just enough to enhance his arousal without relieving it.

    “I think,” the professor announces finally, “that he has taken enough. Now, pet…” He pauses as Moran lets out a sharp cry as something else is now pressed into him in place of the former object; a plug, the gunman guesses, designed to trap the water inside him. “You shall hold it in for a while, and then I will allow you to empty yourself into a chamber pot. Will you like that?”

    “Yes… sir.”

    “This will help to clean you inside; to wash away all the dirt, and thus perhaps too wash away the taint of your mistake.”

    So Moran is made to kneel there still for some minutes – how many he cannot say; he has lost all concept of time, able to focus only on the pressure inside him. As the waves of cramping grip him again he almost sobs in pain and he tightly clenches his fingers.

    “Too much?” the professor enquires pleasantly.

    “Yes sir.”

    “Tell me how you feel, pet.” Moriarty trails his fingers down Moran’s spine again, bringing them to rest just above his buttocks.

    “I… feel… full, sir.” Moran pants, his voice strained by the cramps in his belly.

    “And?”

    “It’s cramping, sir.”

    “Yes, pet, but tell me how you _feel_.” The professor now taps his fingers very lightly against the base of the plug that is inside his lover.

    “Uncomfortable, sir.”

    “And?”

    “Humiliated.” Moran blushes deeply, which garners a smile of approval from Moriarty, not merely at Moran’s embarrassment but because he has always found it rather charming when Moran blushes.

    “Very good. I think though that you forgot something, pigeon.” Moriarty grasps the base of the plug and carefully eases it out, just a fraction of an inch, before sliding it back firmly into place. Despite the discomfort the movement sends a ripple of pleasure through Moran and he groans, his cock twitching in response. “You are aroused, no?” Moriarty says, now twisting the plug slightly.

    Moran swallows thickly. “Yes sir.”

   “Despite – no, _because_ of – your humiliation; your discomfort; your pain. You cannot help yourself becoming aroused.” Moriarty twists the plug the opposite way, then draws it out slightly again before pressing it in once again, pulling another unwitting groan of pleasure from Moran. “Moaning like a wanton whore, as usual. Well…” Moriarty taps the base of the plug sharply. “Perhaps it is time then to move on to the next stage of your punishment, pet. I am going to remove the plug now but you must keep the liquid in until I allow you to release it, do you understand me?”

    “Yes sir.” Moran, having no desire whatsoever to empty himself all over the table, agrees all too readily. The plug is drawn out of him, slightly relieving some of the intense pressure, but now he must fight against his own body to hold the fluid inside himself whilst Moriarty and the doctor move to unfasten the straps holding him in place.

    “Come on then, pet,” Moriarty says, tugging on Moran’s lead with one hand, holding his arm with the other. Moran’s legs are wobbly and he is disorientated by the blindfold, thus he is entirely dependent on Moriarty to support and guide him. “Over here, just walk slowly.”

    The doctor grasps Moran’s other arm and so he is led between them a short distance across the room and then made to crouch over a chamber pot. He is immensely glad that he cannot see anything as he finally empties himself.

    It is the doctor who pulls him to his feet after; who washes his lower body down with a clean, warm sponge, pressing close against Moran at one point as he moves the sponge over Moran’s groin, briefly drawing it along his prick and swiping it over his balls. Moran gasps again and shifts sideways, but is promptly yanked back into place by a sharp tug on his lead from Moriarty.

    “Stand still,” the professor commands. “We must ensure you are nice and clean before we proceed.”

    Washed clean then, Moran is now led back across the room and made to stand in the centre of the floor, hands behind his back once again. His lead now dangles down, its free end currently attached to nothing, but Moran does not even consider moving from his spot.

    The doctor leaves the room briefly to empty the chamber pot. Meanwhile the professor returns to his toy chest to select the items necessary for the next part of his lover’s punishment.


	5. Chapter 5

   The gag goes on next - a thick leather band strapped across Moran’s mouth and fastened tightly behind his head, not designed to cut off all sound but sufficient to prevent him from emitting anything coherent.

   “Sometimes, pet,” Moriarty says softly into Moran’s ear, as he shifts around behind his right hand man, “I suspect that you are quite unable to tell the difference between pleasure and pain. Should we experiment with this, hmm?” He brushes his fingers down the side of Moran’s throat, over the pulse point under his jaw. Moran’s pulse beats rapidly beneath his fingertips. “Punishing you with pleasure _and_ pain, my pet.”

   The doctor has returned to the room and he now moves to stand close to the professor and the captive colonel. Moran feels Moriarty shift as he stretches across and takes something from the doctor.

   “Relax, pigeon,” Moriarty says, and then he promptly pushes the plug – freshly lubricated with petroleum jelly – back into Moran’s entrance.

   Startled, Moran stumbles forward, issuing what would seem to be muffled curses into his gag.

   “Steady, steady,” Moriarty says, pulling him back into place. “It is nothing you haven’t taken before. I promise you, pet, I can give you much worse than this if you provoke me.”

   Moran stands still once more although he still mutters something into his gag. Moriarty holds onto him tightly, the lead wrapped around his hand and his arms around Moran’s upper torso, and he is still holding him securely when the doctor drops to his knees in front of Moran and swiftly takes the head of Moran’s currently half-hard prick in his mouth.

   The noise Moran makes, muffled by the thick leather, sounds barely human. Moriarty laughs at his lover’s reaction to having his manhood engulfed in that warm wetness, his breath tickling the back of Moran’s neck.

   “You like that, pet?” he says, lips brushing Moran’s left ear. “Of course you do, although I am sure that you wish it was my mouth upon you, hmm?”

   Moran groans into his gag as the doctor laps and licks at the head of his arousal, roughly tonguing its opening, licking away the fluid that beads there. He instinctively tries to reach for the man, to twine his fingers in his hair perhaps, but Moriarty catches his arms and pins them by his sides.

    “No pet, no touching,” he chides, before slipping one hand  behind Moran’s back, once more down between his buttocks to grasp the base of the plug and gently twist and turn it; to ease it out very slightly before pressing it fully into Moran again, rocking it against his prostate.

    Moran lets out a high pitched whine, very nearly overwhelmed by the combined sensations. His prick juts up stiffly between his spread thighs now as the doctor turns his attentions to Moran’s balls, running his tongue over them before gently sucking on each in turn. The colonel is getting so, so close to orgasm now, straining against Moriarty’s hold; trying to thrust against empty air.

   “No pet, not yet,” Moriarty says to him, now tightly holding his wrists again, hard enough to hurt; to bruise. “You are getting ahead of yourself.”

    Moran whines again in frustration and desperation as the doctor withdraws and when Moriarty tugs on his lead again he resists for a moment.

    “Come, pet,” Moriarty commands, tugging again, and Moran stumbles after him. “If you could bring the cane, please,” the professor says to the masked doctor, and Moran’s shoulders go tense. “You need to be reminded of your place,” Moriarty tells him, seeing Moran’s reaction. “I think that twenty strokes should be sufficient, hmm?”

    Now the sound Moran makes seems to be one of protest.

    “I could make it thirty, if you prefer,” Moriarty says, watching Moran, who shakes his head vigorously. “Very well, twenty.”

    Moran bows his head as the professor secures him into place, locking his wrists and ankles into shackles that are connected to two pillars, set wide enough apart so that Moran’s legs are spread and he is unable to press them together to protect his sensitive inner thighs or genitals, but not so wide that he will easily lose his balance. Moriarty secures the end of his lead through a metal ring set in front of Moran, to further restrain and stabilise him.

    Moriarty is skilful when he spanks Moran, whether it be with a cane or a riding crop, a leather strap or his bare hand. He knows how to strike his lover so as to cause him the maximum pain – the maximum humiliation also - but without damaging the vulnerable organs or his joints and bones or marking his skin too badly. He also knows that making Moran wait and rendering him completely unable to judge when he will be struck only heightens the punishment.

    He waits therefore before delivering the first strike, watching Moran to find the moment when he first begins to let down his guard after he has stood there for some minutes, listening intently, trying to judge when Moriarty is about to begin. The first blow lands horizontally across Moran’s bare buttocks, resulting in a sharp cracking sound and a muffled cry of pain and surprise from Moran, who jerks hard against his restraints.

    “Really, pet, this is only the first stroke,” Moriarty reminds him. “Do try to be quieter for the remaining nineteen.” He strides back and forth behind Moran, swiping the cane through the air to further taunt and tease the colonel, before finally – when he has deemed Moran to be least expecting it – smacking him hard across the back of his left thigh. Moran still cries out, though not so loudly now. The third stroke comes almost immediately after the second, giving him no time to prepare for it, although this blow is delivered to his right thigh.

    The next few strokes are delivered swiftly, although apparently erratically, Moriarty varying the time between each; also varying the position and angle of the strokes, but rarely the severity. All hit Moran hard, cracking against his skin and leaving angry-looking stripes. More than one stroke catches Moran across his inner thighs; the tenth stroke lands against the base of the plug pushed inside him, another across his exposed balls, leaving him writhing in his restraints and practically sobbing into his gag.

    “Hush, hush, pet.” Fifteen strokes in and Moriarty pauses, admiring the red welts across his lover’s skin; relishing the sounds that Moran is emitting from behind his gag. “All right, Sebastian; all right; you’re doing so well.” He presses against Moran for a few moments, holding him, noting how Moran still leans into his embrace. In the haze of pain (and more than a little arousal) the colonel has all but forgotten about the presence of a stranger in the room. “Only five more strokes, pet. Can you manage that?” Moriarty asks. It is an honest question, for this may be about Moran’s punishment rather than his pleasure but this is the first time he has given Moran more than fifteen strokes with the cane. He would still not wish to push Moran past what he can truly endure. “Sebastian?” he says, when Moran pauses, trying to collect his unravelling thoughts. “ _Can_ you manage five more?”

    Although unseeing, Moran twists his head round as far as he is able as if to look at the professor, and he nods.

   “Good boy,” Moriarty says. “My good pet; I knew that you could take your punishment well. I will finish these five and then we shall move on to something else.”

      He counts down the last five out loud, still varying the timing between the blows but ensuring now that Moran can properly keep track of how many strikes remain. He delivers the remaining strikes forcefully, making sure that the last of them catches Moran’s balls again even harder than the first time, making Moran howl into his gag.

    “All right, all right, that was the last of them.” He releases the shackles and Moran falls into his arms, shivering violently. “Come on, you can rest for a few minutes now,” Moriarty tells him, leading him over to the bed. Moran fights him though when Moriarty tries to press him down against the bed, desperate not to have his whipped backside held against even the soft coverlet. “Hush, pet, all right.” Moriarty lets him roll onto his side and Moran lies there, his ribs heaving. “You’ve done so well.” Moriarty sits beside him, stroking his fingers idly through Moran’s sweat-darkened hair. “Your punishment will soon be over, pet, there are just a couple more things I need to do to you now.”

   Moran wonders if this is meant to sound so ominous.


	6. Chapter 6

   He lies on his side on the bed for some time, his backside still smarting from the caning; still feeling filled by the plug inside him, but it is not too unpleasant. The remembrance of a stranger in the room - a participant in and witness to Moran’s torment - has faded to a background consideration. He merely lies for a while, his head tucked under Moriarty’s chin as the professor holds him.

   “Sebastian,” Moriarty says at last, and Moran lifts his head. Moriarty kisses him on the forehead; on the nose. Meanwhile his hand shifts down between Moran’s legs. Moran’s erection has all but subsided; now though as Moriarty lightly caresses his prick and balls with his fingertips Moran begins to harden once more, and he presses eagerly into the touch. Moriarty allows it for a moment, but as he does so he glances over at the masked doctor who has been seated off to the side during the caning. An unspoken command brings the man over towards the bed now, and he brings a couple of items with him.

   Moran flinches sharply when the doctor puts his hand on Moran’s knee, drawing the colonel’s thighs apart.

    “It’s all right, pet,” Moriarty tells him, holding him still while the doctor now fondles Moran’s length.

    Although still wary, Moran relaxes a degree and he can’t help but moan with pleasure at the skilful caressing. Then the pleasurable caresses are withdrawn; in their place is suddenly a new kind of pressure; increasing tightness around the base of his prick and his balls, and a moment later he realises that the doctor has fastened a leather strap around his intimate organs. Momentarily he is seized by something close to panic, utterly terrified of what the doctor could do to him, and he thrashes about, trying to break free.

    “Shh, shh, Sebastian, shh.” Moriarty quickly gets Moran pinned to the bed under him, sitting straddling Moran’s hips whilst he grips his wrists tightly. “Sebastian, lie still and I will remove your blindfold and gag.”

    The professor’s voice is commanding and Moran, despite his fear and the pain of being forced onto his back, obeys. He goes still, and within a few moments Moriarty has reached behind his head to undo the blindfold.

    “Careful now,” Moriarty says. “It is not too bright in here but still, keep your eyes closed for a few moments.” Moran keeps his eyes closed until after Moriarty has removed his gag. Then he warily opens his red-rimmed eyes and looks up at the professor. “Better?” Moriarty queries.

    “Yes sir.” Moran glances over at the masked doctor, who sits on the edge of the bed now, before flicking his gaze back to Moriarty. “Sir, what…?” He looks down then, at his erect prick.

    “We are not going to damage you, pet, I promise you.” Moriarty gently runs his thumbs over Moran’s cheekbones. “That is merely to enable you to stay hard for much longer; to delay your release. You’ve had something similar used on you before, remember?”

    Moran nods. “Yes sir, I just… I didn’t know what he was doing, sir.”

    “I’m in control here, not him; don’t you worry about him, pigeon.” Moriarty leans over and kisses Moran on the mouth now. Almost at once Moran kisses him back hungrily, eager for the gentler contact after all the humiliation and pain. While kissing the professor gets his leg between Moran’s, nudging them apart, and Moran soon begins to rut against his thigh, growing increasingly desperate for release. “Ah, ah, no, pet; you shall not hump my leg like a dog.” Moriarty gives him a light slap across the cheek, although he is certainly amused by Moran’s flushed face and chest; by his straining erection too. “If you are so desperate, pet, so _needy_ ,” the professor remarks, reaching beneath Moran, “I think then you are ready for the final stage of your punishment.”

    Moran eyes him questioningly, eyes wide, pupils dilated. Moriarty roughly drags out the plug and tosses it aside, leaving Moran’s passage feeling suddenly empty, but Moran is certain that it shall not remain so for very long.

    Moriarty begins kissing him once again, first on the mouth, then skipping down over Moran’s collar to his chest. He licks at one nipple before nipping it sharply, making Moran gasp and dig his fingers into Moriarty’s back. He does the same with the other nipple, leaving both stiff and reddened. Moran slips his hands down to the professor’s groin, palming his arousal through his trousers. Of course he’s expecting to be penetrated by Moriarty; he usually is as the denouement to their longer games, whether they are about mere pleasure or discipline too. When after a moment of rubbing against his lover’s caress Moriarty pulls back then, Moran is surprised, and he fairly mewls at the sudden loss of contact.

    “Professor?”

    “Quiet, pet,” he says. “You’ll get what’s coming, don’t fret, but we are going to do things rather differently tonight.”

    As Moran watches, the doctor sheds all of his clothing, leaving only the mask on now, and revealing a slim but long, fully erect cock nestling in a thatch of dark hair. The man says nothing; merely follows the brief flick of Moriarty’s eyes towards the bed and climbs onto it beside Moran, lying there on his back.

    Moran is confused but aroused by this, although he cannot bring himself to look towards the doctor’s face, even though it remains hidden by the mask. He finds his gaze drawn down to the man’s erection, and he has a very good idea now of what he is going to be expected to do.

    “I want you, Sebastian, to sit astride the doctor here,” Moriarty tells him. “I want you to lower yourself onto his manhood, allowing him to penetrate you.” He cups his hand briefly, tenderly, beneath Moran’s chin. “Will you do that for me, pet?”

     Moran hesitates, torn between his own desires; his own need to obey the man he adores, and the fear of being taken in such a manner by an anonymous stranger.

    “Sebastian?”

    “Yes sir.”

    “Very good. _Very_ good, pigeon.” Moriarty withdraws from him again and picks up the second item that the doctor brought over, the jar of petroleum jelly, and promptly hands it to the doctor for him to slick his length with. With that done, Moriarty takes Moran’s hand and guides him over to the doctor. “Face me, Sebastian,” he says, as Moran straddles the doctor’s hips. “Keep your eyes on mine, that’s a good boy.” Moran does, since it’s far easier to endure the fact that he’s about to be breached by a stranger that way. In fact he is almost comfortable with the idea then, as he keeps his blue eyes locked onto Moriarty’s. He wants to please the professor; he wants to be forgiven for his sins; he wants these attentions from Moriarty, no matter how perverse they may be.

    Between the three of them they get Moran into the right position, Moriarty holding both of the colonel’s arms now to partly support his weight as Moran lowers himself slowly down, the doctor holding his stiff length so that its tip presses against Moran’s entrance. With a sigh of pleasure from the doctor, a pained grunt from Moran and a smirk from Moriarty, Moran seats himself on the doctor’s lap, with the man’s prick planted in his arse, his legs drawn up and feet digging into the bed either side of their bodies.

    “Good boy,” Moriarty says, and Moran lets out a shaky breath, still looking at the professor for further instructions, sure that he is not yet meant to do anything more than sit there. The doctor too is unmoving, apparently also awaiting a command.

    As Moran watches the professor backs away and unbuttons his waistcoat, which he places carefully aside, then he removes his boots and stockings and unbuttons his trousers, sliding them down before he neatly folds them and puts them with his stockings and waistcoat. His underthings come next, until he is standing at the side of the bed dressed in only his shirt, which is not quite sufficient to hide his own almost fully hard erection. Moran looks at this and cannot quite keep from licking his lips.

    “Sebastian, I want you to lie back now,” Moriarty tells him as he kneels on the bed beside the two men. He crouches there for a moment, stroking petroleum jelly over his own length. “Come on, lie back.”

    Moran does so, although he is somewhat bemused now about just what is going on, and he grimaces at the flare of pain as his weight rests on his sore, caned buttocks. He flinches further when the doctor slips his hands around Moran, holding him in place.

    “Good boy,” Moriarty says, and now he’s kneeling between the doctor’s legs, his thighs spread as he pushes himself as close as possible to Moran and the doctor. He slides his hands underneath Moran’s thighs, rather relishing the colonel’s sharp hiss of breath as Moriarty’s fingers brush over the welts from his caning. “Keep looking at me, that’s good, pet.”

    Moran watches him, his lips slightly parted. “Sir?” he says, as Moriarty pushes his legs up, folding them back with the knees bent. “Professor, no.” He shakes his head vehemently as he grasps what Moriarty is about to attempt.

    “Hush, hush, it’s all right, pet.” Moriarty smiles at him – a smile that seems almost genuinely affectionate; truly warm. “You can take this, Sebastian.” He keeps one arm hooked beneath Moran’s right knee, holding that leg up, but with his right hand he grasps his own prick and presses its head against Moran’s entrance, just above where he is already joined with the doctor.

    “No sir, it’s too much. It’s far too much.” He shakes his head again, looking away from the professor briefly, even as his own engorged prick twitches at the thought of being so completely filled; so very thoroughly fucked.

    “Sebastian,” Moriarty says gently, pausing before he has quite entered Moran. “I assure you, you can take this. You have been stretched this wide before.”

    “Yes, but…” Moran tries to think of a protest but when he looks back at the professor, back into those blue-grey eyes; at that almost benevolent, kindly expression – the kind the man normally only uses upon students – then his protests die on his lips and there is nothing left but the desire to try this, no matter how painful; how risky even it may be. If the professor was being forceful he could fight that, but he can’t fight this, even though he knows that his true punishment is to be made to crave these depraved acts, not being forced to accept them. “Right sir.”

    “You wish me to proceed?”

    “Yes sir.”

    “Good boy.” With steady pressure, Moriarty pushes himself in alongside the doctor. Moran groans at the intrusion; bares his teeth as he is breached twice over; lies there panting as the professor slides deeper inside him. Moriarty stills for a few moments, allowing Moran to adjust to the sensation before he begins to move again. Even then his thrusting is shallow and cautious, rather surprisingly so to Moran, who is well aware of the violence that Moriarty is capable of during their intimate activities.  

    It is painful and far from comfortable but it is tolerable, even when Moriarty glances down at the doctor, apparently finally giving him permission to move. Moran can’t keep from crying out as he is taken from below as well as above, but he’s more aroused than ever now, his prick leaking fluid against the professor’s stomach as Moriarty leans over him.

    “Professor,” he says. “Oh god, _Professor_.” He reaches up with shaky hands and wraps his arms around Moriarty, clutching onto him.

    Moriarty’s gaze remains fixed on Moran’s all the while. He cares nothing for the doctor, who is no more than a tool to be used in punishing and pleasuring Moran; who means less to him than the toys he uses on his lover. He wants the man to come inside Moran, certainly, but only as the finale to Moran’s punishment and subjugation, not because he cares one jot about the doctor’s pleasure.

    He kisses Moran again, nudging the colonel’s lips open, invading Moran’s mouth with his tongue. He smiles when Moran groans into his mouth as Moriarty and the doctor both thrust into him, harder and faster now. He briefly caresses Moran’s arousal, stroking the sensitive skin; rubbing his thumb over the head, before releasing it, and Moran bucks his hips hard. He’s practically sobbing again, but not precisely with pain. He feels overstimulated and over-sensitised, desperate now for relief but not quite able to get the right stimulation in order to achieve this.

    “Professor,” he says against Moriarty’s neck, and that is all that he says for a time, as if he has forgotten all other words. “Professor, Professor, _please_.”

    Moriarty licks a trail up Moran’s throat, over the collar; over where his pulse races now, and he nips at Moran’s earlobe briefly. “Not yet, pet,” he says.

    “ _Please_.” Moran’s hands fist in Moriarty’s shirt and he arches up, trying to grind down on the two pricks within him, urgently trying to find a better angle to provide him with just the right form of internal stimulation, although all this seems to do is tip the doctor over the edge. The man stiffens and bucks up, spilling his seed into Moran, who gasps again and clutches on even tighter to the professor’s shirt at this new sensation.

    When he is sure that the doctor is thoroughly spent, Moriarty, displaying a strength that not everyone would credit him with, lifts Moran clear off the other man and deposits him upon the bed, and now he begins to slam into Moran harder than before, into that passage already slick with another’s release. It’s too hard; too fast; too intense, and Moran is full on sobbing now, so desperate to finish.

    “ _Please_ ,” he says again, as Moriarty grasps his wrists and pins them to the bed so that Moran cannot touch himself and relieve himself that way. “Please.” Begging to be allowed to come, yet Moriarty seems implacable, continuing to slam roughly into his lover in a way that is all about satisfying himself, not sating Moran. This is still part of Moran’s punishment, after all. Then he goes very still; throws back his head in an almost soundless cry and he too spends into Moran, continuing to thrust shallowly long after his orgasm is spent, before he withdraws himself, although he keeps a tight hold on Moran’s wrists.

    “Professor!” Moran cries. “Let me finish, please. Just let me touch myself.”

    “I’m not sure you deserve it. Have you learned your lesson, pet?”

    “Yes sir; I won’t make a mistake again sir.”

    “No, you certainly will not.” Moriarty sits up, tugging Moran up with him so that they are still face to face, although he rests his hands on Moran’s hipbones now. “Ask me nicely.”

    Moran looks at him, his eyes dark with lust. All the fight has gone out of him; all the cockiness. He is merely a trembling mass of want and need who would do anything to please the professor at present. “Please, sir,” he says. “May I be allowed to finish?”

    “Hmm, well… Perhaps you need to beg harder.”

    “Sir?”

    “Beg me, pet.”

    “Please let me finish, sir; please.” It’s a risk, Moran knows, but he leans forward and presses kisses to Moriarty’s throat, nuzzling against him, playing the obedient and devoted pet. “Please, Professor, please allow me to come.”

    Finally Moriarty takes pity on him, deciding that Moran has endured enough tonight and certain that he will be far more cautious in future. “All right, Sebastian; all right.” He undoes the leather strap around Moran’s genitals first, causing Moran to groan at this change in sensation. With that removed he now takes Moran’s length in his hand and strokes him rapidly, causing the colonel to buck frantically into the touch; so keyed up with arousal that he can think of nothing else now. His whole world is reduced down to this frenzied need for release at the professor’s skilful hand, nothing else.

    Perhaps he screams when he comes; he truly does not know, or care. The relief is so great, the orgasm so intense. that he seems to stop hearing and seeing anything for some moments, and then he collapses forward onto Moriarty, tears running down his cheeks and soaking into the professor’s shirt.

    “Shh, shh, hush, pigeon.” Moriarty trails his fingers up and down Moran’s back. He is well aware of how affectionate and emotional the usually far more composed Moran can become after a particularly intense session with him. It is such an illogical and – so it seems to him – an appallingly feminine thing to do, and yet he likes it. No-one else, he is certain, can reduce Moran to this state, and he is perversely proud of this.

    He holds Moran until his breathing slows and his tears stop, and then Moran sits up, his eyes even more red-rimmed than before, his face deeply flushed. He is an utter mess, appearing thoroughly debauched and debased. His hair is tousled every which way and soaked with sweat; his release is streaked up his abdomen, while he can feel the professor’s seed and that of the doctor trickling out of him. It is a most shameful state to be in, even more so with a stranger in the room, but he is too drained; too exhausted to care any more.

    All that matters is that he knows now that Moriarty has forgiven him.


	7. Epilogue

   Afterwards Moran lies on the bed for a time, completely exhausted. Most of his body seems to ache and throb, but in the afterglow of his orgasm; in his hazy state of exhaustion, it is not too unpleasant. He pays little attention to anything around him, oblivious to the doctor’s departure, coming back to awareness only when Moriarty takes his hand.

    “Come on, pigeon,” the professor says. He slips a robe around Moran before leading him from the room, upstairs to where a hot bath awaits him. There Moran soaks in the warm, soothing water while Moriarty washes the sweat from his hair and the tear tracks from his face. After the bath Moriarty dries him down and then carefully applies ointment to Moran’s bruises and welts, including the couple of places where the crop broke the skin. Then it’s back into a fresh robe before Moriarty leads his lover, his hair still damp, into their private sitting room, where they dine on a late, informal supper.

    Moran is quiet all the while, behaving with extreme docility. It will be a few days before he’s back to his usual cocky self, but this is all right by the professor. He knows that the colonel is simply reflecting on his behaviour and his punishment rather than that he is frightened into submission. He allows Moran to sit close to him while they eat, even letting him rest his head on Moriarty’s shoulder at one point, to prove to him that he is truly forgiven.

    “Professor,” Moran says when they have retired to bed, as Moriarty draws Moran closer to him.

    “Yes Moran?”

    “Sir, I am sorry, about-”

    “Hush, Moran; I know that you’re sorry but you have been punished for your mistake and will not make the same error in future, hmm? The matter is therefore concluded. We need not dwell on the matter any further.”

    “Right sir; thank you sir.” Moran snuggles up closer to him.

    “Go to sleep now; you need your rest.”

    “Yes Professor.” Drained by the night’s activities, Moran soon drifts off to sleep.

    Moriarty though lies awake for some time, true to his words thinking little about Moran’s mistake and what this cost him. His previous scheme came to nothing as a result, but tomorrow is another day. He has plenty more schemes to plot.


End file.
